


The Blogger's Fate

by trekker2000



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2018-05-28 19:26:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6342049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trekker2000/pseuds/trekker2000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a case, there is a careless driver, slippery ground, and a crash. Watson is dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Cold, creeping, a sensation of rushing water tumbled through Sherlock. It seemed to run down from his neck; a thick cloak around his shoulders, sweeping the floor. A deep sense of forbidding crept upon a sleeping Sherlock like a panther, stalking in the undergrowth looking for its next prey. The world's only consulting detective shot straight up on the couch, rubbing the back of his neck. When had he fallen asleep? Sherlock stood up and pulled back the curtains to the flat he shared with John, who could easily be called his best friend. Oh alright, his only.

The darkness outside was complete. Only the very few meek street lamps provided any light, and that light was slowly fading away. After he solved his current case, a murder of a whole group of small children in a late-night day-care facility, he would have to check out what had happened to keeping the city clean, bright, and safe. Sherlock looked at the horizon, seeing the distant warmth of the sun that was starting to peak over the clustered city buildings.

Might as well get ready.

John woke early: not as early as his flat-mate, mind you, but still early enough to see the first brilliant and golden rays of the sun sneak their way into his window between the curtains. The window had been left open, and the air smelt clean and fresh, full of passed and promising rain. The doctor from Afghanistan had been aware Sherlock had passed out on the couch, after two consecutive nights of working on a case, without food nor sleep, so he walked out of Sherlock's room gently. John had been helping Sherlock with their case, or rather acting as someone Sherlock could recite his findings and deduce things aloud to, and after Sherlock had been simply too tired to continue, John decided to sleep in his friend's bed, too tired and lazy to walk up a flight of stairs.

The kitchen smelt wonderful. This was a pleasant change, as Sherlock mainly used the kitchen to house experiments and it therefore usually smelt of death and decay. The sink was full of dishes, and a single plate sat invitingly on the table. Sherlock's microscope and tissue samples were pushed up against the coffee maker, files took their place. The dinning table was barely visible beneath stacks of paper. A mug was filled generously to the brim with steaming coffee, the plate on which a scrambled egg and two pieces of toast sat was clean.

John Watson had no memory of cleaning the plates, but the sink was empty. He walked over and opened the cupboard to find the cups, plates, and bowls neat, clean, and in perfect order so no one would have to shove things around to find what they needed. The food was getting cold, or so it looked to John. It was a pity to waste food that someone had worked so hard to prepare.

Sherlock bustled in to find John sipping the last of his coffee, his eyes glaring intently at one of the many files on the children who had been killed. He left his coat and scarf on, not bothering to remove what he soon would be pulling back on. He slid into the chair opposite to his companion. "Are we going to the crime scene today, Sherlock?" John asked, looking at his still-coat-clad friend.

"Yes. Lestrade finally asked us up." Sherlock said, absentmindedly.

"About time." John said, trying his best to sound fully awake.

Upon John's last sip of his coffee, Sherlock jumped to his feet and dashed toward the door. As usual, John was expected to follow close behind Sherlock. He heard the door open, and decided it was time to chase after Holmes, onto the crime scenes he so indecently enjoyed.


	2. Chapter 2

"It was a poison." Sherlock began, "That killed these children."

"How so?" Lestrade questioned, ready for the usual strange theory that would follow and later prove to be true.

"If it is one thing most children enjoy doing, it is eating. Now, this day care center is open for 19 hours, which ensures that they feed the children there breakfast, lunch and dinner, often times with a snack in between." Sherlock stated.

"Yes, that is correct." Lestrade nodded, wondering where this was going.

"At the time the bodies were found, they were already cold, which suggested they had been dead for at least 2 or 3 hours. Dinner is 6 o'clock, and the bodies had been found at 8 o'clock. They had been dead for two hours. Because children are small, it would not take as much time for a poison to travel through their bodies and kill them as it would for an adult. Most likely about 20 minutes for the child to reach clinical death." Sherlock paced.

"Alright. So assuming it was a toxin…" Lestrade began, only to be aggressively cut off by Sherlock.

"It is a Toxin, Lestrade. There is not a single mark on any of the children." He stalked over to the table, and flipped open the dossier. "If someone had suffocated them, there would be bruises around their neck. Small children such as these could suffer bone or skin breakage around the neck, or collapse of lungs. They have not been drowned either. Victims of drowsing could have been wet, or shown signs of submersion such as damp hair or wrinkles on hands and feet. It takes longer for a dead body to dry off completely than a living one due to a loss of internal heat." Sherlock stormed. "There were no visible finger prints, am I correct?"

"No, but that doesn't mean anything. The killer could have been wearing gloves." Lestrade replied haughtily.

"There are no blank imprints? No unusual lingering scents?"

"No." Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck as he confirmed Sherlock's inquiry.

"The only gloves they have here are latex-based. Latex has a rather foul smell that would have clung to any of the children's bodies, but there is no smell. Even then, any type of glove would still leave a blank print.There is not a single disturbance on any of the skin or hairs on each of those bodies. They took a nap, and never woke up." Sherlock concluded.

"On the bodies we took a test on, there were no traces of any toxin." Lestrade continued the conversation.

"Sulfuric acid." Sherlock replied simply.

"Come again?"

"Sulfuric acid is a toxin that can easily be hidden in drinks, especially of those who do not pay attention to what they are drinking. Example, hungry and thirsty children. Drop some powder in a cup, it dissolves. Still deadly. It is almost completely undetectable." Sherlock said this with such an air of finality no one could argue. Everybody stood silent for a moment before Anderson piped up.

"Who was the killer then?" He asked. Sherlock sighed impatiently. 

"Even Lestrade could figure that one out." He snapped. Feeling the cue, Lestrade took his best stab.

"The caretaker?" He tried. When Sherlock glared at him, he knew he had guessed wrong.

"No. The caretaker would not have time to place a toxin in even a drink. The chef puts the food there, out on that hang-over, and then the current care-taker picks up the food and puts it in front of the child."

"Then, the cook?" John asked, actually sure of himself.

"Obviously." Sherlock replied. "I understand that you guys don't have half the brains even John has, but it is so clear, one of the dead children could have gotten it in a split second."

"No. I don't think so." Lestrade crossed his arms.

"John, was it not obvious?" Sherlock was dragging his best-flat-mate into this.

"Actually this time it was." John replied, shriugging as if to say 'What're you going to do?'.

"Well," Sherlock persisted, "Where does the cook live, and what is her name?"

Lestrade, Anderson, and some of the other guys there looked at each other, each hoping the other knew the answer. Lestrade was bold enough, and in a slightly shaking voice, replied.

"Well, we don't actually know." He said. Everyone in that room shifted on their feet, knowing the rage of the genius standing in front of them was about to be unleashed.

"You don't even know her name? Not knowing her address would have been fine, we have the internet, but no name? How do you expect me to solve this case!?" Sherlock's voice was clam, smooth, and cold as ice for the first words, but as his sentence drew on, his words gained more fire. He did not yell, nor scream. That was for children to do. What he did do, though, was gain spite. He practically spat the word "case" like it had the swine flue. The tall, dark, jacket clad Sherlock began to pace, muttering to himself. His eyes swerved around the room, looking for something he could deduce to at least find the woman's name.

"Sherlock, if you give us a couple of days, we can get her address. We just need time to find the boss, her name and address…" Lestrade tried.

"You don't even know the bosses name and address!?" Sherlock spat. His fuming continued. "Three, four days!? That is too long. The killer could be gone by then, if not already!"

"Sherlock, you don't understand!" Lestrade screamed. Sherlock lost control and raised his voice to match.

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND!?" He roared.

John jumped and backed away quickly. He had never heard Sherlock raised his voice above spitting, let alone at another person. It didn't feel right.

"NO YOU DON'T! YOU CAN JUST WALK TO ANY CRIME SCENE AND DEDUCE OR WHATEVER IT IS YOU DO, AND KNOW THE ANSWER IN A MATTER OF MINUTES. YOU TREAT EVERYONE ELSE LIKE THEY'RE STUPID!" Lestrade thundered.

Anderson cowered into the doorway.

"COMPARED TO ME, EVERYONE ELSE IS STUPID!" Sherlock countered, rising his voice even more. His face was becoming red on the edges, it was clear he was straining to match Lestrade. He never yelled.

"YOU ACT LIKE IT'S A BIG SECRET, ABOUT WHAT YOU DO! LIKE WE CAN'T DO WHAT YOU DO! LIKE NO ONE ELSE CAN!" Lestrade didn't look the least bit strained, like he yelled this loud every day. John's his head was pounding. Everyone else was backing out of the doorway, to look in at the fight but hardly hear it. John, however, was just a few steps away, standing transfixed.

"OH, SO YOU DON'T WANT ME AROUND ANYMORE?" Sherlock bellowed. This was the final straw for Lestrade.

"NO, PERHAPS WE DON'T! PERHAPS WE HAVE WATCHED YOU MAKE A FOOL OF US LONG ENOUGH AND WE CAN FIGURE IT OUT NOW! YOU! ARE! FIRED! SHERLOCK HOLMES!" Lestrade's face was full of hate. John could tell he really meant it. "GET OUT!".

No one could deny that Lestrade was absolutely serous. His face was almost purple with rage, his hand shaking with anger so much, his extended pointer finger shaking in the direction of the door.

Sherlock ran both his hands down the side of his coat, and turned around.

"Come on John, lets go. It is clear they never want to catch whoever killed these children, or ever catch any killer ever again." Sherlock replied like he always did when Lestrade didn't give him the information he wanted, fused with ice but calm.

Lestrade glared at John, almost daring him to stay, to betray Sherlock. John glared back, so full of hate and rage Lestrade actually started.

John thought he would never leave Sherlock: if his friend crossed an ocean, he would follow. Sherlock had helped him regain his confidence, his full stride, and his will to live. He felt he owed Sherlock, but was that all he felt?

Every time he looked at his best friends high check bones and perfect curly hair, looked straight into his deep and bright ocean blue eyes, he lost it. There was nothing that could explain the way his heart beat every time Sherlock touched him, even in the slightest. No, he would never ever leave Sherlock's side.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock fumed. The flat seemed to be aflame at times, the rage often so evident it could burn a mouse to a crisp.

John sat in his chair, trying to read the papers while Sherlock paced back and forth. John could understand, work was his life. Sherlock took in air only to continue his work, food only to survive. Being told someone could easily replace him as the only consulting detective probably stung more than John could comprehend. But still, it had been a week. The pacing was becoming annoying. "Stop it Sherlock. You're going to burn a whole in the carpet!" John snapped.

"Oh, so you don't want me around anymore either?!" Sherlock raged. His voice climbed easily these days.

"It's been a week. You can stop moaning for yourself!" John yelled back.

Sherlock glared at him, a glare that had only been used on Mycroft before. John jumped, and hung his head a bit. Before John, Sherlock had his work. When John came along, and they became friends, Sherlock still did everything for his work, but seemed to appreciate John's company. John had become his partner in crime. They had never fought before this last week.

It hurt John, but he could tell it hurt Sherlock more.

"I'm sorry Sherlock." John said sadly. His friends face had anguish written all over it.

"No, John, I'm sorry. I started yelling, and I have been moping." Sherlock admitted as he slumped onto the couch, his face between his long fingers. "It's just, i have always dedicated myself to some kind of work. I have never known actual love or friendship before you came." John blinked. Had Sherlock just said…..

"Well, that can't be true. I'm sure someone had a crush on you, at some point?" John asked.

He had to admit, he wanted Sherlock to have had someone before him. When the words love and friendship had been put into a sentence, along with before he came, meant that John had shown him these things. Even though John had inexplicable feelings when Sherlock looked at him straight and touched him….

He was NOT in love with Sherlock.

"Oh, well…. No. No one in school. I was too smart for them; I guess I intimidated them or something. I never beamed or punched the air when I got an A, I always got an A. I was different from everyone." Sherlock replied, "Very few people even looked at me straight. I've never kissed anyone apart from my mother's good-night kisses." A stone dropped in John's stomach. He had never really thought about Sherlock as a child, Sherlock and his first kiss, Sherlock and his first girlfriend, Sherlock and the year he almost failed, Sherlock and his first true love, Sherlock and being expelled, Sherlock and any other normal childhood milestone. None of those things really happened. Not for him, not for his best friend.

"I'm sorry." John replied. It seemed feeble. Hell, it  _was_ feeble. When Sherlock talked about his lack of friends he seemed content. Even so, John felt bad for him. Those two words were so feeble, so small. They felt wrong in his mouth, and when the came out, the silence that followed made John feel even more like he had said the wrong thing.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked, looking at John straight into his brown eyes with those blue piercing ones.

"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" John murmured. As soon as the words hit Sherlock, John knew he would be deduced.

"You seem sad for me. Your hands are entwined across your heart, even though you are leaning back, not perched forward. You are not sitting cross legged, like you often do when you sit back in a chair. Your voice cracked slightly, raised a bit, when you said sorry. When I sat down, you stiffened, as if you wanted to stand up. If you were to stand up, I know you would not leave, you would either go to the kitchen to make tea, or drape and arm around me. When I looked up at you, just now, you tensed up again. You can't take your eyes from mine, and you are having trouble breathing. When I said I had not felt love or friendship before you came, I knew you were thinking about it. LOVE. FRIENDSHIP. You were thinking I assumed you loved me. Which, I think, you do. You denied to yourself you loved me. You denied to yourself even the smallest of hopes that i could feel the same way of you.Well, I'll tell you John. I do love you."


	4. Chapter 4

John was struck dumb. Had Sherlock just deduced him and said I love you?

He shook his head quickly, than stared at Sherlock. "YOU WHAT?!"

Before Sherlock could open his mouth to repeat the sentence, Lestrade shot through the door, a ruffled looking Mrs. Hudsen standing in their doorway.

"Oh Lestrade!" Mrs. Hudson chided. "You really shouldn't burst in. Sherlock is still angry at you." Lestrade glared at her through bloodshot eyes.

"You look dreadful!" Sherlock said happily. It was clear any state of pain Lestrade was in made up for getting rid of Sherlock.

"I haven't slept for the whole week you were gone!" Lestrade snapped.

"Welcome to my world, Lestrade. I usually don't eat or sleep while I have an unsolved case." Sherlock replied, knowing it would make Lestrade that much more angry.

"Well, good for you! We are not all exactly like you Sherlock!" Lestrade ranted. The lack of sleep had also made Lestrade a great deal crankier. "I can't do your job for you."

"You said you could." Sherlock reminded him not so helpfully.

"I know, but apparently I can't. I have found only one clue! Visiting the Care center at all hours they were open, and the boss was never there! Apparently, if anyone has a problem, they are to CALL him. And this person isn't even certified for child care. All the boss wants is some easy cash." Lestrade sighed. He looked questioningly at John, knowing Sherlock would not permit him a seat or some tea after their previous conversation. John nodded and moved off to the kitchen while Lestrade sat on the couch. Sherlock looked at Mrs. Hudson pointedly.

"Why don't you come in, Mrs. Hudson? You are already here and you have not had tea with us for some time." Sherlock invited quite politely.

"Oh no, this is your business Sherlock. I am not apart of your job. I rather don't think I am qualified to attend this meeting." Mrs. Hudson refused, waving a hand in the air.

"I insist." Sherlock refused the decline. "This is no meeting. Lestrade simply wishes to apologize to me." Sherlock gave an angry glance towards Lestrade.

Mrs. Hudson grinned and hobbled over the threshold and Sherlock helped her down onto the couch next to Lestrade.

"Why, thank you Sherlock. You are right, it feels it has been forever since we have had a tea together." Mrs. Hudson gratefully took the first cup of tea from John and touched it to her lips.

Sherlock made a point in taking the next cup, and sat down in a chair as far away from Lestrade as possible in their tiny flat. John gave Sherlock a death glare for being so rude while he carefully handed Lestrade his cup before sitting down in the one other chair. The couch might have fit one more person, if that person also happened to be skinny and small.

"I am assuming you hit a dead end?" Sherlock pressed, wanting to find just one more reason to embarrass Lestrade. The latter took a large gulp of tea and swallowed before looking up again.

"Actually, not yet." Lestrade replied, a slight smug grin crossed his lips as he took another, smaller, sip of the tea. John fought back a look of surprise. Sherlock swallowed and asked another question.

"Well, what did you find?"

"The boss. His name is Jacob Mindd, he is forty-three, lives twenty-six miles down this road to the south and his phone number is 763-159-37-0934." Lestrade riddled off. Sherlock sat thinking for a moment, his long fingers brought together at their points, holding his cup against his chin.

"Do you have an exact address?" Sherlock inquired.

"No." Lestrade replied, closing his eyes as he took another sip.

"Of course not." Sherlock huffed. He swapped out his phone and got ready to send a text to a new contact.

To: 736-159-37-0934

I am Sherlock Holmes.   
I am coming to your home tomorrow for morning tea and a chat.  
My Flat-mate John Watson will also be attending.  
Be ready to talk about the murder of some children.

SH


	5. Chapter 5

"And you must be John Watson." Jacob Mindd shook John's hand and ushered them inside to sit. The house Jacob lived in was large and full of expensive things. It was clear this man had a great joy for collecting things. Glass bottles stood in a colorful line on a display shelf, heads of all kinds of animals adorned the wall above the fireplace, and exquisite stones sat on the mantle.

"Are you a hunter?" John asked, eyeing stuffed heads all over the wall.

"Oh, no. Those are rare animals that I pay a prized hunter from Canada to...retrieve for me. He is very kind to me, but yet not to my budget." Jacob replied, a grin creeping over a long pail face, stretching thin lips to their limit.

"Ahh." John replied, uncomfortably. 

"We are here to talk about the person who you so stupidly hired, resulting in the deaths of children, not about your endevors to rid this world in unique forms of life." Sherlock sniped as Jacob, who was clearly going to talk on.

Instead, he frowned.

"Wait, so all of this is my fault?" Jacob snatched back.

"Unless you give us the information we need, you could go to jail for the murder of these children, or at least accessory to crime." Sherlock informed him.

"How am I responsible for the death of these children? I wasn't even there when the bodies were found, or the time when you estimated the toxin had been ingested!" Jacob protested.

"We know you weren't there. You never are. But, the location of the murder was your establishment, and therefore ultimately your responsibility. If you do not give us the information to find and bust the real killer, you are required to take the responsibility for letting him get away." Sherlock replied haughtily. 

The situation seemed to finally set in the Jacob, this WAS serious.

"Ah. Will you please, erm, come in? Sit down, please make yourself at home! Would you like any tea?" Jacob suddenly was kind and flamboyant. He had a lot to lose if he went to jail, including one of the world's largest multi-cooperations and over 140 million dollars. He was one of the richest people in the world at this point in time. It was understandable to panic a bit when faced with murder and accessory charge. "What would you like to know?"

"The cook at your facility." John supplied simply.

"Which one?" Jacob asked, furrowing his brow in concentration.

"Erm, it's a daycare…." John replied meekly, scratching his neck. 

"That helps me how?" Jacob replied.

"Facility 468 of line 19 in Northern England." Sherlock replied.

"Ahhh." Jacob replied. "Line 19 is run by a sub-head. Each line is. I don't know specific workers in specific facilities in any line."

"Who is the Sub-Head to that line, then?" John asked.

"I don't even know the names of all of the Sub-Heads of all 147 lines." Jacob replied helplessly, shrugging. 

"Are you going to help us, or give us reason to believe it was you that carried out this crime?" Sherlock quipped, getting impatient. 

"I have a file of all of my Lines. Gives me basic information about each Head and each of the corporations. I might be able to give you a name, an approximate address, a phone number, and I could also give you the file about that person. Would that help?" Jacob rushed on, attempting to keep Sherlock's attention.

"That would bring us just that much closer." Sherlock said mockingly.

"Good. Now, let me just find it." Jacob stood and went to the stairs. He was halfway up when Sherlock jumped up and followed him, John coming as well.

"I'm coming." Sherlock informed a baffled Jacob. He nodded sheepishly and continued to a door that had a little placcard that read "Filing"  and required a key to open. Jacob pulled a small, silver key from a chain and inserted it into the lock, a twist making the mechanism click open. 

"My files hold all of the information to each line, and transaction, everything that has to do with my financial business." Jacob informed them. "If anyone stole into this room, I would lose everything that matters to me. My money and possessions." He pushed the door open and revealed a room stacked full of different file-folders, a desk who's surface one could not distinguish the color of the table top. The floor might have had wood finish: each step made a slight thunk. 

"Do you have any kids, a wife?" John asked looking around the room and thinking back to Jacob saying his most important items were his money and material things.

"No, of course not. I don't have time. I am conquering the economical part of England. Having kids would make things just that more difficult." Jacob replied. "Ah, here it is. The file."

Sherlock grabbed it, smiled and walked out the office door and down the stairs. John bounced after him, waving thanks to Jacob.

Outside, Sherlock hailed a taxi.

"Sherlock." John inquired.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock responded as a taxi pulled up. "221 B Baker Street." Sherlock informed the driver who nodded and pulled off onto the road.

"Jacob seemed... strange." John replied lamely.

"Yes. Most people threatened by a social outcast do act strange. He knows who I am. I did a case for his Ex-wife. A rather charming lady, actually. Glad she left that dirtbag. Also, in case you had forgotten, you run a blog about my life.  I am always in the paper. One look at me and anyone knows my name and, yours." Sherlock replied, staring at the file, longing to rip into it.

"You're not a social outcast, Sherlock." John muttered.

"Yes, I am. Name one person who actually cares about me." Sherlock refused.

"I do."


End file.
